


All The Way and Without Warning

by lavishsqualor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-27 11:37:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavishsqualor/pseuds/lavishsqualor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Sam wants is a little bit of space away from the constant distraction of Dean, his antics, and his Texas-sun-deepened freckles. Things get a little bit crazy, though, when Sam decides to retaliate against Dean's ambushes with his own, and awkward teenage awkwardness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Way and Without Warning

[   
](http://asmadaima.livejournal.com/5490.html)

  


  
Sam is cramped, he feels like his knees are stuck in his armpits, and it's all because this stupid trailer isn't large enough to hold a family of three, let alone his growing limbs. So it's difficult, trying to hide his history textbook under a tome of exorcism rituals. This is what his life has come to: having to be furtive about working on homework.

Reading about the American revolution halts when he hears footsteps approaching, thick-soled boots kicking through the desert sand, and he covers the recount of the Boston Massacre by slamming The Roman Ritual of Exorcism over it. Dean barrels in, no stealth since he's not on a hunt, and when he spots Sam seated at the modest, folded-down foldaway kitchen table, his eyes go wide.

"What the hell, Dean?"

Dean settles some and shifts his feet, his surprise dwindling. "Thought you were supposed to be at soccer practice."

"That was the last town." Sam pffts.

"Oh. Well, I still know something's up. You’re all jumpy. What's going on?"

Now, Sam's eyes widen in disbelief. "What? _Nothing_ is going on. Seriously, Dean, what the fuck?"

Dean clearly doesn't believe him, though, and he makes a noise of disdain as he turns to exit the trailer. Sam assumes he'll just head back to whatever he'd been up to, probably fiddling around under the hood of the Impala or sharpening his knives at the picnic table out back.

And that's pretty much how things have been going the entire time they've been here.

Three weeks they've been in Dallas, well, not really Dallas proper, but a trailer park on the outskirts of the city. John insisted that the city was full of all sorts of evil things, so they'd be hunkering down for a while. It's kind of odd, having Dad around, and it's kind of annoying, all three of them being stuck in such a small space.

John's not always around, but during the times that he is at home base, he's taken to teasing Sam about working on anything school-related—which is exactly why badgering the hell out of Sam for the same has become Dean's new thing. Even more annoying than having nowhere to stretch out his legs is having to hide his schoolwork whenever someone’s around. He's fucking sick of the nagging, though, so he does what he has to.

Sam gets caught again just a couple of days later. This time, he thought he'd get out of the trailer and make use of the desert they've got for a backyard. The trailer park where the motorhome they're renting by the week is located isn't large and doesn’t include too many neighbors, but what it does have is a lot of open space. The thing about the desert backyard, however, is that there aren't many good places to spread out and study.

He trekked out probably half a mile till he found a low-hanging Cottonwood tree, and while the reddish-brown dirt's packed tight and hard, he's at least found a little shade from the ever-present sun. It's almost six o’clock, but it's mid-October in Texas and still hot as fuck. He's got his shirt off and balled up, and is using it as a makeshift pillow to lean his elbow on while sprawled flat on his stomach over his calculus notebook.

The good thing about this backyard is that sound travels, and Sam can hear the scuffling long before it gets close. There's no doubt that it's Dean, back from his job working construction for a house-finishing company and heading out to check on Sam. Sam reaches into his bag, quickly, as the scuffles get closer, and throws a grimoire over his work.

A whistle, and then there's Dean, his shadow looming tall and obscuring the words Sam's pretending to read. Even if Sam hadn't been sure it was Dean by the pattern of the approach and the statute of the shadow, the shape of Dean's amulet swinging from his neck as he leans down would have given it away.

"Whatcha working on, Sammy?"

Sam turns onto his back, the dusty pages pillowing the back of his head, and hopes that his hair covers anything that might give him away. "Nothing."

"Nothing? Doesn't look like nothing." Dean sits down next to Sam and punches him lightly in the ribs. "Looks like you're up to something."

"Up to something, my ass. Only if studying spells counts as up to something."

"Huh, really?" But Dean doesn't actually seem convinced, his head cocked and eyebrows high. Sam's thankful when Dean lets it go, though, and asks, "Hungry?"

"Could be."

Dean laughs, full out, his head thrown back and eyes crinkling at the sides. "Could be. Well I'm fucking starving." He rubs at his stomach for emphasis, which is unnecessary—Sam knows that Dean's always _starving_. Dean leans forward a little and moves his hand to Sam's head, rustles Sam's hair as he asks, "What do you say we forget the microwave oven and start a fire? Living in a trailer feels like camping anyway."

Sam nods. When he turns back over to pile up the books, he's thankful for Dean's short attention span and the fact that he's already turned away and heading back to the park.

\---

  


The longer they're there, the more frustrated Sam becomes.

John leaves Friday night to look into a haunting over in Hutchins, promising that he'll be back late Sunday or Monday and telling Dean, as always, to "look out for Sammy."

Thing is, Sam's certain that Dean's starting to take the whole looking out for him thing way too seriously. Sam can't get a fucking _moment_ alone. The minute he tries to find some space, Dean's hot on his feet, asking what he's doing, where he's going. Other times, Dean insists that they do something together, always harping about the need to train, to go for a run, to practice their marksmanship or sparring skills. Which, for the most part, is okay with Sam—he doesn't generally mind spending time with Dean, doesn't even really mind all the hunting stuff, when it's just him and Dean—it's just that he needs some goddamn space.

For two reasons. The first being that this is his junior year, and while he doesn't hate everything about hunting, it's not what he wants to do with his life; he's been thinking about his future, and all possible options involve achieving the best grades possible, so he needs some more time alone to focus on schoolwork. The second reason he needs space is because he's simply feeling overwhelmed by Dean. Dean, who's always there, always in Sam's face, and constantly taking up his breathing room. Dean's his best friend, yeah, and Sam's all right with that, having long ago given up on the dream that he'd get to be a normal teenager, with normal teenage friends, but it just feels to him, more and more, like he's suffocating.

When Dean's around, which is pretty much one hundred percent of the time that Sam isn't at school, Sam is distracted. Like, he can't help but notice that the constant Texas sun has deepened the color of Dean's skin and made his freckles stand out even more than before. And when Dean forces Sam to join him out front of the trailer where he's working on the Impala, insisting he needs Sam's help passing him lug nuts and wrenches, Sam is distracted by the way that Dean's t-shirt pulls across his shoulder blades and rides up at his waist, revealing the firm muscles of his lower back. Sometimes, Sam thinks it odd, these things he notices about his older brother, these things he notices and then can't stop _staring at_ , but he just chocks it up to too-close quarters and jealousy. He just wants to have muscles like Dean, that's all.

So when Dean starts ruining every minute Sam finds to work on homework, he comes up with a plan. Just that weekend alone, he was barraged three times, Dean tiptoeing up to the trailer and then slamming in to announce his arrival, Dean stalking out into the desert to bother Sam at the new Cottonwood he'd found, and, once, after Sam had given up almost all hope, even kicking in the door of the trailer's tiny bathroom, where Sam'd had his notebook spread across his knees and then had to deal with being teased for looking at porn while taking a dump when he immediately hid it behind his back.

This lack of space has become unbearable, so Sam figures out a way to beat Dean at his own game. If Dean thinks Sam's hiding something, he's going to get better at what he _is_ hiding while at the same time setting Dean up. Making traps will not only throw Dean off, but it'll cause him to forget altogether that Sam's supposedly hiding something.

The next day, Sam knows Dean will get home from work at about a quarter to six, and he’s ready for it. He's got his schoolwork hidden in his backpack and the normal hunting study materials laid out on the table. But, this time, when he hears Dean making his way toward the trailer—not understanding how Dean can manage to be so quiet during hunts while normally he's as loud as a bull in a china shop—Sam's ready. He's crouched behind the bench of the table, hidden from the view of the door, so when Dean enters the trailer, eyes wide like he's ready to catch Sam up to something, he has no idea what hits him. What hits him is Sam, body flung full force out from his hiding place and into Dean. It's a perfect tackle, and they both go down. Dean bangs his head on the tiny kitchenette countertop along the way, which works out perfectly, because it gives Sam the opportunity to climb on top and pin Dean with his lower body.

Dean was off his guard and unprepared, and he's huffing out breaths, squirming underneath Sam in an attempt to overtake him. "What the fuck, Sammy?"

"Just playing your game is all." Sam doesn't have nearly the strength that Dean does, so he gives all he has to keep Dean down, now pressing his hands down tight onto Dean's shoulders. "You think it's funny sneaking up on me all the time, so I thought I'd try seeing how you like it."

"Do not, Sam."

"Do too." Sam's trying hard to stay on top, to win this match, but it's hopeless, really, and next thing he knows, he's the one with his back on the cheap, peeling linoleum floor. Dean's got him pinned, and he's barely exerting any effort at all, while Sam's a sweaty mess.

Dean reaches a hand down and musses Sam's hair further. "Whatever, Sam. Seems to me that someone who plans an attack like this definitely’s got something to hide."

With that, he lets Sam go, removing his weight gracefully. Once standing, Dean looks down at Sam as he straightens his shirt. The look is strange, knowing, and Sam's not only unsure about what it is that Dean thinks he _knows_ , but also about the success of this trap.

\---

  
The decided failure of the first trap he set for Dean doesn't deter Sam at all, though he waits a bit before his next attempt to make sure that Dean's let his guard down. A week later and Sam's spread out under the same Cottonwood as the last time Dean found him. Again, he's got his work put away, but, instead, has an auto magazine laid out.

As expected, Dean comes looking for him. Sam pretends he doesn't hear Dean coming from a half mile away, and just continues to idly flip through the pages of the magazine. He really doesn't give a shit about anything in it, but he's got to pretend to. When Dean leans down to see what it is that Sam's reading, Sam swings out his arm, wraps it around Dean's calves, and pulls as hard as he can.

It works, and he knocks Dean flat on his back. Sam scrambles up and onto Dean, pinning him. He's pretty sure the massive grin on his face makes him look like a douchewad, but he doesn't even care.

"Holy shit, Sam. What was that?" Dean's not smiling.

"Just thought you deserved to get laid out on your ass."

Now, though, a smirk crosses Dean's face as he begins to laugh. And laugh, and laugh. Sam can feel the vibrations throughout his lower body, but he's not laughing himself. He's confused, and he's really not sure what's so funny—maybe it's that Sam is awkward as fuck.

He doesn't really know where things went wrong, but he knows that his sneak attack on Dean definitely didn't work in his favor.

\---

  
Strangely, a second failed attempt still isn't enough to convince Sam that his plan to play Dean's own game against him is a bad idea. So, this time, he goes for the same attack as the first. He's hidden behind the table just like before and ready to pounce as he hears footsteps drawing near. This time, though, he doesn't even give Dean a chance to fully enter the trailer, but bounds out as soon as the door's opened.

It's not until they've both fallen out and onto the dirt that Sam realizes that who he's tackled isn't even Dean—it's his _dad_.

"What the hell, Sam?" John snarls, the fall apparently failing to knock the wind out of him.

Sam climbs off of his father as quick as he can, shakes the dirt off his knees, and reaches a hand out to help. John takes it and rises, but the look on his face is not a thankful one.

"Seriously, son, what was that?"

Sam's kind of at a loss. How is he supposed to explain what that was? Now that he thinks about it, he realizes how ludicrous the whole thing sounds. Luckily, though, he pulls it together after a moment.

"Just practice, sir. Dean and I, well, we've been pulling sneak attacks on each other." John raises an eyebrow in disbelief, but Sam continues, "You know, to get practice always having our guards up. So we can be ready for an attack at anytime."

Thankfully, that seems to appease John, since it was a damn good lie if Sam were to say so himself. John just shakes his head and slaps the dust off his clothes, laughs a little and murmurs something like, "Crazy kids."

Later that night, when Sam's laying in bed and trying to ignore the heavy breathing that's indicative of Dean's sleep just a foot away from him in the same bed, Sam replays the day's incident in his mind. The lie he'd made up had worked, but he can't help but realize how embarrassing it would have been to admit the truth. The truth, the fact that he's been ambushing Dean as revenge against Dean's own ambushes, is ridiculous, really. Couldn't he have found another way to get Dean to lay off? A way that didn't involve tackling Dean and getting closer than either of them seemed to be completely comfortable with?

Yeah, they were used to sparring together, and have spent the majority of nights over the past sixteen years in the same bed, but something has been different about these recent encounters. Something has felt _physically_ different, and it's left Sam feeling bizarre, kind of worked up, afterwards.

Sam turns from his stomach onto his side, toward Dean, and watches his brother's chest heave up and down with deep sleep breaths, his amulet sliding just slightly up and down with the movement. Maybe Dean was right, maybe Sam really is hiding something, and _maybe_ it's not his schoolwork at all.

\---

  
Sam's over trying to hide from Dean. Well, he's at least over playing those stupid games. That doesn't stop him from still attempting to find some time alone, however.

When he gets home from school there's a note from Dean saying he'll be at work late. It's mid-November, now, and getting darker earlier, so Sam plants himself in the driver's seat of the motorhome, the most comfortable seat in the house that just happens to have an available overhead lamp. He doesn't care that Dad ordered them to stay out of the front seat, fearful that they'd mess around with things and end up driving away the trailer that was hooked up to multitudes of cables and supposed to stay stationary. He's just working on some chemistry equations, so nothing's going to happen.

But that's where he's wrong.

Next thing Sam knows, Dean's crashing into the trailer. Immediately after that, he's calling out Sam's name, volume rising as he gets no response. The trailer's not large, though, so it doesn't take Dean long to notice the light on in the front seat.

Then he's hurdling across the trailer and trying to make his way into the passenger seat. They're close quarters, though, and Dean's feet get tripped up on the console, so instead of landing where he intended, he falls right into Sam's lap.

Dean's a mess, flipped onto his back and out of his element. But he calms quickly, looking up at Sam, kind of sheepishly, as Sam looks down.

"What is up with you, Sam?"

What's Dean even talking about? "Nothing. Just working on some chemistry homework." He decides to go with the honest route and heaves a breath before continuing, "You think I've been hiding something, but that's it, Dean. All I've been hiding is working on my damn schoolwork."

Dean doesn't believe him, though, which isn't a big surprise, so he's shaking his head and saying, "Nah. That's not what I'm talking about. Something else is up. You've been all– all fucking _doe-eyed_ for weeks now." Dean tries to sit up, or at least gain some leverage, but when his feet can't find any purchase he gives up and sinks deeper into Sam. "I've been thinking about it, a lot, and I've got a couple of theories."

A couple of theories? Sam laughs inwardly and looks forward to hearing them.

"As far as I can tell, there's only two possible explanations for the way you've been acting."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. The first is that you're possessed." Sam scoffs, but Dean continues, "Or... you're in love."

And that? That theory catches Sam by surprise. He knows that he has been acting differently, that his need to find some space away from Dean actually has a lot more to do with needing some breathing room from the many distractions Dean presents rather than actually spending time with his homework. He knows he's been looking at Dean differently, a lot differently, lately. But he hasn't made that connection, yet. In love?

Sam's not sure what's appearing on his face as this all goes through his mind, but he is sure that stalling was the worst possible option, and yet all he can come up with is, "No.... That's not it."

"I knew it!" The grin that crosses Dean's face as he shouts those words is perhaps the largest Sam's ever seen. As Dean clambers up and closer and even more into Sam's space, he says it again, "I knew it."

There's not a moment to react or to even think a thing before Dean closes all space between them and crashes his mouth into Sam's.

But any thought Sam might have had to stop this is gone, completely erased, just moments after he feels Dean's lips against his own. They're soft, and knowing, and Sam's seen Dean kiss girls before and it always appeared that they were really into it, but now, _now_ , he knows why. He's reciprocating Dean's movements before he even realizes it, and when Dean tries to part Sam's lips with a gentle swipe of his tongue, Sam lets him. He opens wide and lets Dean in, meeting Dean's tongue with his own.

It's kind of like one of their sparring matches or these stupid sneak-up-and-tackle-the-shit-out-of-each-other games they've been playing—it's rough, and heated, and a battle for dominance. Actually, it's a lot like most interactions between Sam and Dean.

As the kiss continues, their hands begin to roam. Sam throws away the pencil and calculator he'd been holding, and Dean reaches his arms around, grabbing onto the back of Sam's shoulders and gripping tight. With his hands now free, Sam takes the opportunity to grasp onto Dean's white tee, clasping his hands in the fabric and pulling him even closer.

Sam's mind is almost completely consumed with the sensations running through his body, the feel of Dean against him, of Dean's hands on him, of Dean's tongue working its way farther and deeper into his mouth and the way he occasionally backs away to nip at Sam's bottom lip. But a small part of his mind contemplates how stupid they've both been, how stupid they've been not to realize earlier that this is where things were always going to go, each one of them thinking the other was hiding something, when, really, they were both trying to conceal the same thing: this.

That's completely forgotten, though, when Sam lowers his hands and slides them up and under Dean's shirt, during which his hands rub against the front of Dean's jeans and he feels Dean's hard length pushing forward.

Oh, _fuck_ , Sam thinks, and slides his hands around Dean's back and pulls. He needs to get closer to him, so he lifts and slides Dean forward. Dean gets it, and swings his leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap. And that is exactly what Sam needs, Dean grinding down with his groin against Sam's.

Sam stretches his legs and pulls Dean closer, closer still, and doesn't even realize until Dean breaks the kiss that something's wrong.

"Sam!"

His chest is heaving, and he just wants Dean's mouth back on his own, but somehow he manages, "What?"

"The trailer! It's moving!"

That serves to grab Sam's attention. He throws Dean off and into the passenger seat and slams at the parking break, which, fuck, he must've released when he was adjusting their positions.

Dean's laughing, hysterically, eyes wild and shining under the small overhead light. "Holy shit!"

But Sam's kind of lost the mood, and he doesn't understand how Dean can be laughing. "Dad's gonna kick our asses!"

"No, he's not. Won't even notice."

"Yeah fucking right, Dean. Are you forgetting who our dad is?"

"Whatever. Right now, I don't give a damn." The light in Dean's eyes has changed, no longer sparkling with laughter tears, but blown wide and dark. He looks at Sam, long and intensely, before climbing out of the seat and edging back into the trailer. "Get your ass over here, now."

That's all Sam needs to hear to make him forget the mess they've made of the trailer and the screaming they're going to hear next time they see John. He's out of that seat and slamming into Dean near instantly, hands fisting back in Dean's shirt and body pressing in tight. Dean walks backward, leading them toward the lone bedroom of the trailer, where the double bed they share is located. Both sets of feet moving hurriedly, they quickly become tangled, but, luckily, the space is small, and after just a couple more haphazard steps, they've made their way to the bed.

Dean may have started this, but Sam's become more than a passive observer, and as the backs of Dean's knees jam up against the bed, Sam pushes him further, climbs up on top of Dean, and crawls forward.

"Hey, easy tiger."

"Nuh uh," Sam says, breath already beginning to speed. "This is _not_ going to be easy."

Dean smirks a knowing smile.

Too much time spent ignoring what was going on between him and Dean, and even hiding it from himself, has Sam's feelings driving him forward, and fast. He levers toward Dean and brings their mouths back together.

He's kissed a couple of girls in his day, but it has never, _never_ felt like this. Nothing has come close to what it's like kissing Dean. Instead of soft skin under his hands and against his face, he's got hard muscles and day-old stubble, and it's amazing.

Sam's desperate for a better sense of those muscles, and so he lets his lips leave Dean's to travel down his jaw and then farther, nipping lightly at Dean's neck. The taste of Dean is different, too, perfect, bitter saltiness. Lower, still, Sam ventures, pushing the hem of Dean's tee down so he can suck at his collarbone.

As Sam noses Dean's shirt away, he brushes along the cord of the amulet, which gives him an idea. He wraps his lips around the cord and pulls, and as he leans up to look at Dean, he takes the amulet into his mouth. The taste is like blood in his mouth, coppery, but it's grounding.

Dean's worn this amulet every day for almost a decade, and Sam never forgets that he's the one that gave it to Dean, and he knows Dean never forgets that either. Sam rolls the amulet around on his tongue, and as he continues to look into Dean's eyes and sees such a sense of understanding there, he's again amazed that they've held out on this for so long. It was always going to happen, it's been happening, and now here it finally is.

Dean is anxious, though, and as he shifts his hips up, he growls. Sam drops the amulet, eagerly swallows down Dean's growl, and meets Dean's groin by grinding down with his own. More kissing and frantic grinding, and then Sam can’t take it, so he brings his shaking hands down to unbutton Dean's jeans.

He slides his hand in and grabs a hold of Dean's cock—it's hard and heavy in Sam's hand. Sam jacks Dean slowly, and as his eyes flutter closed, Dean sits up and pulls his shirt off, then Sam's. Hand to dick contact broken, Sam shimmies down the bed and tugs Dean's pants off, finding that he's not at all upset about the view this new position affords him.

It had likely been a long time coming, but his intense desire for Dean has hit Sam like a steamroller. Now, though, comfortable in the waves of Dean’s reciprocated passion, Sam’s not afraid to go for what he wants. He breathes out onto Dean's dick, and it twitches in anticipation, popping up and right into place for Sam to slide his lips onto it. The taste, the feeling, everything, is unfamiliar, but the way Dean's shivering beneath him makes it all worth it.

Sam sinks down farther, working his tongue along the underside as he goes, and when he's got as much in as he can, he tightens his lips and sucks. Dean nearly howls above him.

"Sam, Sam, _fuck_." Sam feels Dean's hands come down on his shoulders and tug. He doesn't want to, but he pulls off to look at Dean. He's instantly glad that he did, too, because he has _never_ seen that look in Dean's eyes—pure, hot want—and it's thrilling.

"More, Sam." They've only really just got going, but, already, Dean's voice is scratchy and shot. "Need to feel you."

Sam's aware that he must ridiculous, eyeballs popping out of his head, but he can't even bring himself to care, because Dean’s words hit him hard, and– did he hear Dean right? Dean wants to _feel_ him?

Dean answers without Sam actually asking. "Yeah. Want you in me."

Well, Jesus _fuck_ , but Sam supposes he can make that happen.

He can't seem to takes his hands off Dean, though, so with the fingers of one hand digging into Dean's hip, he removes his pants with the other. If Dean's eyes move down to watch, Sam's alright with that.

This is all happening so fast, faster than Sam can even process, and, all of a sudden, he’s feeling intimidated by the weight of what he’s about to do. _How_ is he supposed to do this? And how is he supposed to make it feel good for _Dean_?

This time, Dean answers his unvoiced question without words. He spreads his legs and shifts his pelvis upward, pulls Sam's hand off of his hip and to his mouth. Dean's lips closing over Sam's fingers feels amazing, and Sam knows that this is only the _beginning_. He feels better, feels ready, and when he pulls his hand from Dean's mouth, saliva sticking between his fingers, he knows just what to do.

Sam reaches down and rubs his fingers back and forth, up and down Dean, and when Sam brushes past Dean's hole, he can feel it flutter, anticipatory. That's all the approval Sam needs, so he pushes one finger in, slowly.

Dean's muscles clamp down, tight, and he screws his eyes shut, moaning low. Sam pushes further, hypnotized by the look on Dean’s face, until his finger is in as deep as it’ll go, then he pulls out—back in, back out.

"More, Sammy. I can take it."

Sam's really not sure Dean can, but if he's actually going to get his dick in there, he supposes another finger should probably work. He slicks his fingers up with his own mouth this time, then pushes back in.

Dean seems to hold his breath as his body adjusts, but soon enough he's biting down on his lower lip and pushing back to meet Sam.

Through heavy breaths, Dean says, "Sam, come here," and he grabs at Sam, pulling him forward. Sam’s fingers are suddenly cold as they’re pulled from Dean, but the effect is quickly lost on him, because he's straddling Dean, and Dean's guiding Sam's dick into his mouth. Dean's lips wrapped around him feel obscene, the tight heat of his mouth unreal, and Sam cannot believe that he's about to be in an even warmer, tighter place.

Dean's sucking Sam down like it's all he's ever wanted to do, licking around the head, and coating it in saliva. When he pushes Sam back, spit hangs from Dean's lip to Sam's cock head, and Sam slams his eyes shut, breathing through the sudden rush that sight gives him.

"Now, Sam. Come on."

Often, Sam has to be told twice before he listens to Dean's orders, but not now. He slides back down Dean's body, slipping right between his legs, and once lined up, he pushes Dean's legs up a little, and out.

Dean wasn't kidding, though, he's not waiting any longer, and yet Sam is taken off guard when Dean grabs his dick, pulls it forward, and bears down.

"Fuck, Dean. _Fuck_." Sam hasn't even entered all the way, but he's overcome. Dean's opened up around the head of his cock, and it's too good, it's too much.

Sam presses in slowly, for Dean, and just because it's so damn overwhelming. They're chest to chest, face to face, so warm and close and perfect. After a few moments, Dean nods, and Sam knows what he means, what he wants.

As he pulls out and lifts himself up, he realizes how awesome it is that they're able to say so much to each other without even talking. They've always had this kind of second language that only the two of them knew, but, now, it seems the connection has become even stronger.

Dean nods his head once more and Sam thrusts forward. Simultaneously, they groan, and Sam thrusts again. In and out, in and out, and then Sam tilts forward, switches his angle just a bit, and the sounds coming out of Dean make it clear that he’s found the right spot.

He's got one hand clasped tight to Dean's hip and the other on his chest, sliding around on the sweat-slick muscle. Dean reaches up and grabs Sam's hand, squeezes, and breathes out, "Sam."

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Just– a little– more."

Holy _fuck_. Sam hasn't even touched Dean's dick, not since he had his lips wrapped around it, and Dean's going to _come_. That thought right there is enough to push Sam to the brink. He loses control, pounding into Dean hard and uncoordinated until he feels Dean's come between them, hot and sticky. Dean's body rhythmically clenching impossibly tighter pulls Sam’s orgasm out of him, and he’s gone.

As he rides it out, shallow thrusts and Dean's clamping hole almost too much to take, Sam lowers his body completely, settling firmly onto Dean.

\---

  
Later, after they've cleaned up and are near sleep, Sam on his stomach like always and Dean with his arm thrown across his back, they hear John's truck pull up and putter off. Sam inhales, sharply, because their dad notices _every little thing_ , and there's no way the couple of yards the trailer's moved is going to escape his notice.

Dean shushes him and leans in closer. "We're sleeping, Sammy."

John clambers up the steps and into the trailer, and Sam can sense that he's angry by the fall of his feet. He must realize that they're in bed, though, because he simply mutters, "Damn boys," to himself.

"Safe," Sam whispers, as he turns his face toward Dean.

Dean laughs lightly, pulls closer to Sam, and squeezes his arm a little tighter. "For now."

"Truce, Dean?"

Sam feels Dean's sleepy smile against his shoulder. "Truce."

\---

  
the end


End file.
